


vanilla smile (and a gorgeous strawberry kiss)

by Biscay



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 22:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6168469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biscay/pseuds/Biscay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[coffee shop au] After a gruelling night shift, Patsy needs some caffeine. The Welsh barista is spectacularly cute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [title from The Cure's Mint Car. If you're familiar with the song, this fic is similarly low on the scale of lyrical accomplishment, and high on the scale of cute-fuzzies]

Night shifts are always hard, but somebody has to do them. That's how Patsy rationalises her extreme sleep deprivation as she makes her way to her tube stop to visit Trixie and Cynthia's flat on the other side of London. Midwifery was always going to have gruelling nights, she knew that going in, but after a week of attempting to recoup some sleep during the day while her neighbours upstairs rearrange their furniture (or their pet elephants practice bowling, or any number of increasingly absurd scenarios that her brain comes up with at around hour five) Patsy feels more zombie than human. By rights, she should be in bed right now, but a) the short winter days mean she hasn't actually seen natural light in over a week and getting rickets from vitamin D deficiency would frankly be embarrassing, and b) it's the first time in forever that she, Cynthia and Trixie have all had the day off together, and she desperately misses all the fun they used to have in training.

She could have lived with them; the three of them could have found a flat together, but even though it eats up nearly her entire paycheck (London rent is downright obscene), nothing really compares to coming home to her own place at the end of each day - or the beginning, depending on her shift. Independent living can be lonely, can be hard, but it's worth it. After years of boarding school, Patsy swore she'd never share her living space again if she could help it, and while she loves Trixie and Cynthia to bits, having her own flat is freedom.

Patsy doesn't realise quite how tired she is until she steps off the kerb, only to jump backwards as a taxi tears by, missing her by inches. In that moment, she decides that forking out the exorbitant cost of hipster London coffee is a small price to pay if it keeps her in one piece.

More than anything else, Patsy remembers being surprised by the sheer number of cafes per square feet in London when she moved to the city to begin her midwife training. The pollution, the skyscrapers, the crush of rush hour were all things she was prepared for, but it wasn't until her course started, with midnight cramming-sessions, and shifts that didn't end until 7am that she realised just how much the city ran on caffeine.

There. Not ten metres away, an indie place with a sandwich board outside and pastries in the window. It's so hipstery there's a bell on the door. It chimes when she enters, and the person behind the counter – despite the chill outside, seemingly the only person in the cafe – turns around from where she is cleaning the espresso machine.

Oh goodness, she's adorable. About a head smaller than Patsy, with hair neatly fastened up in a bun. Mischievous eyes and a playful grin. A dusting of icing sugar on her otherwise pristine apron. "Hello."

"Hi, can I get a latte, please?"

"Of course; what size would you like?"

Patsy is momentarily charmed beyond reason by the Welsh accent, but then realises, oh god, it's one of those places with a drink-size scale in Italian. Should she say it with an accent and risk sounding ridiculous, or not and risk sounding stupid?

"You can say the size in English," the barista grins, reading Patsy's thoughts, "I think they're only in Italian because the owner likes to show off that she speaks about ten European languages."

"Impressive," says Patsy. "Er, large please."

"For here or to take away?"

"Take away, please."

"Can I tempt you to anything else?" she gestures to the cakes and pastries by the counter, but maintains eye contact with Patsy.

Oh goodness. "Just coffee, thanks."

The barista says a figure and Patsy hands over five pounds, resigned to the fact that London coffee probably costs, gram for gram, more than gold. She puts her change in the tip jar.

"Name?" the barista asks with a smile.

Patsy looks around momentarily; there is nobody else in the shop. "Patsy."

"P-A-T-S-Y" she says, writing carefully on the cup, her tongue poking out, "right, I'll just get this for you."

Patsy's not sure if she should stand by the till and watch, or wait for her drink down at the counter at the end. She wants to regret coming here - stupid independent cafes and their confusing social mores - but she can hear the barista hum cheerfully as she froths the milk and Patsy knows coming here is the best choice she's made today.

"Right, now..." the barista says, almost twirling away from the machine to place Patsy's order in front of her, "what sort of design do you want on top?"

Patsy blinks.

"I've got-" she rummages behind the counter and produces a selection of plastic discs, "star, leaf, heart and moon."

This is more choice than Patsy wanted. "Whichever you think is best."

The barista winks and sifts a heart design on the top of the foam. She slides it forward. "Enjoy."


	2. Chapter 2

Their flat is kept neatly; both Trixie and Cynthia are fairly houseproud, and the advantage of having a considerate flatmate when you work shifts is that there's usually someone else around to make sure there's milk in the fridge and towels off the floor. With all the night work recently, Patsy's flat has been looking increasingly like a bombsite. Trixie is still getting ready, so Patsy pulls up a chair next to Cynthia (she doesn't have to move a heap of clothing off it first) and braces herself for Trixie's reaction to her story.

"Oh, she was _definitely_ flirting with you!" Trixie declares, looking absolutely delighted. She strides over to the kitchenette where Cynthia and Patsy are sitting, not caring about her state of half-undress. Cynthia and Patsy politely avert their eyes. "The heart on your latte!"

"What if it was just the design she liked best?" Patsy asks. She's not really sure why she wants to be talked out of the idea that what took place between herself and Cute Welsh Barista was not grade-A flirting, but Trixie is having none of it.

"Latte. Heart."

"So do I go back, or-"

"Of _course_ you go back!"

Trixie finally puts some trousers on, and Patsy looks to Cynthia for support. She's brought this on herself, of course; she didn't have to tell Trixie about Cute Welsh Barista, but the level of enthusiasm she is exhibiting is a little intimidating, and Cynthia is a wonderful ally to have when feeling cornered.

Cynthia puts her own coat on and fetches Trixie's. "Should we maybe get going?"

"We should," Trixie nods, buttoning up her shirt and grabbing a scarf, "but I want every single detail."

Over Trixie's shoulder, Cynthia looks sympathetic.

* * *

Despite the kick from her latte, Patsy is too knackered for anything requiring any sort of focus, so rather than check out their usual haunts of galleries or museums, the trio decide to take a walk along the South Bank. Midweek wintertime is ideal for avoiding clumps of tourists, and the day is bright and clear. Patsy feels a little like a vampire, venturing outside for the first time in so long, and squints in the sunlight.

"Was she tall?" Trixie asks out of nowhere, just as Patsy dared hope she'd let the subject drop.

"Not especially. Not taller than me."

"Taller than Cynthia?"

"Leave me out of this," Cynthia says as she snaps a few photos of the Thames on her camera. "I'm not going to be the yardstick for you to measure Patsy's love life."

"Sorry, sweetie." Patsy notices that she receives no such apology, but remembers, again, that she's brought this all on herself. She can't be mad, though; not when Trixie pulls her close and makes ridiculous faces as Cynthia turns her camera to them.

"There are barely any photos of us together since training!" Trixie says, taking control of Cynthia's camera and trying to angle it for optimal selfies.

Patsy genuinely regrets not seeing more of her best friends. "I'm sorry I've been so busy-"

"Don't apologise; you're here now," Trixie says, carefully applying filters. "Although the three of us should definitely do something later. Go to a few clubs..."

"I'm not sure-"

"We can even go to the _gay_ clubs!"

"Mmm, you're driving a hard bargain Trix, but I've got work tomorrow, and am currently operating on a cumulative four hours sleep this entire week."

Trixie is the only one who actually takes advantage of the rich social possibilities that being a young person in London can bring. Neither Patsy nor Cynthia ever bring anyone home, to Trixie's eternal exasperation, and would rather spend their free time reading, listening to the radio or once (memorably) having a crocheting evening, than go out clubbing.

"Cynthia, I know for a fact you're off tomorrow,"

"Yes, but I've got about four chapters left on my novel and it's due back soon."

Trixie sighs dramatically. "Oh my GOD, I miss Jenny!"

* * *

Trixie manages to go a record 40 minutes without mentioning Patsy's new crush. But as they're walking past the London Eye, weaving between the street performers who have turned out despite the cold, Cynthia makes the mistake of suggesting they grab some milk on the way home for tea, and she picks up exactly where she left off. Trixie is nothing if not tenacious.

"So when are you going back?"

"I don't know. On my way home, maybe? God knows I could use the coffee."

"You can't go back in the same day!" Trixie says, horrified. Patsy and Cynthia exchange confused glances. "You don't want to look desperate! Leave it a few days, then go back – it'll be more significant that you remember each other."

This is all a very rude reminder of the mountain of reasons Patsy's love life is so dull; these social rules are all extremely complicated, and she's tired enough already. "What if she doesn't remember me?"

"What, she'll forget the gorgeous sleep-deprived redhead? Then she doesn't remotely deserve you."

She gives Trixie a hard time sometimes, but there's really nobody better to have on your side.

"What do I do? What do I say?"

"Maybe you should just ask her out for coffee," Cynthia suggests.

Cynthia's love of small, personal things rather than the grand gestures favoured by Trixie is much-appreciated; Patsy definitely prefers to keep things low-key. Her suggestion, however-

"She can't ask someone who works in a café out for coffee!" Trixie says, appalled. "That's like someone inviting one of us out to a childbirth!"

"It's not _quite_ like that-" says Patsy.

"Ask her out," Trixie says, as if to a child, "on a _date_."


	3. Chapter 3

Right. It's Patsy's day off, it's a beautiful day, and her shift pattern this week has been mornings, so she doesn't look like the walking dead. Patsy is feeling pretty good as she makes her way back to the cafe, catching glimpses of herself – jeans, check shirt, shoulder bag - in shop windows. The bell on the door chimes musically as she enters; Patsy can definitely _do_ this.

"Good afternoon." -and Patsy stalls. Adorable Welsh Barista seems to have been replaced with a rather severe-looking Northern woman. "What can I do for you?"

Patsy is too disappointed that all her working up to this moment is for nothing to be able to form coherent sentences. The woman seems to disapprove. "I haven't got all day, you know."

"A- a green tea. Large, please."

"Grande?" she clarifies, pronunciation perfect.

"Yes please. To take away."

"Right."

The woman is efficient but intimidating. Exactly the combination Patsy aims for during general nursing, which she respects, but not at all what she was expecting when going back to an indie cafe to maybe get her flirt on. Patsy internally kicks herself for not realising that the cafe realistically has more than one employee and, after paying and moving herself away from the counter to avoid holding up other customers and potentially incurring Northern Woman's wrath, ends up frustratedly swirling the teabag round and round in the cup with a little wooden stirrer for too long.

Patsy and the tea are both quite bitter.

* * *

After the magnificent failure of Plan A, Plan B (enthusiastically approved by Trixie, even though Patsy feels it is perhaps a little stalkery) is to return to the cafe at the same time, on the same day as before.

"Would you like your usual? Is it your usual?" the Cute Welsh Barista (hooray!) asks as Patsy approaches the counter. The cafe is quiet but not empty; another barista, around their age and wearing an Alice band, is clearing tables, and an elderly woman is cheerfully making her way through three different cakes at a table by the window. Mellow acoustic music plays through the sound system.

"Actually, I usually prefer tea," Patsy says, stupidly pleased that the other girl has remembered her, "can I have an earl grey, please? Large, to take away."

"Of course," she says, getting a cup and writing Patsy's name with no prompting. "You know, I've been wondering what Patsy could be short for. You could be a Patricia, with hair like that. Or even Cleopatra – you've got lovely eyes."

How can this girl just say these things? Either she has no idea what it does to Patsy, or she knows _exactly_ what it does. "It's actually Patience."

"Patience!" she says, like it's the best news she's heard all day, "I hadn't even considered that. Oh, it's great though; you don't even need me to say something nice about it, it's already a virtue. One my mother assures me I never quite developed."

"What about you?" Patsy asks. Not the smoothest segue, perhaps, but Trixie would kill her if she didn't get a name.

"I'm Delia. Nothing for short; I guess I'm short enough already. Here's your tea," she passes Patsy the cup, and Patsy notices that she is actually about the same height as Cynthia. She leans in conspiratorially, "is earl grey your usual, then?"

"I don't think I have a usual," Patsy confesses, hoping this isn't a huge breech of coffeeshop ettiquette. "I just order off the menu."

"Ah," Delia says with a wink, "maybe you just haven't had the right drink yet. You should keep coming back; maybe you'll find it."

Patsy's idiot brain is unable to cope with this level of flirtation. "Would you like to go on a date?" she hears herself ask. Across the cafe, there is a clatter of spoons as the other barista nearly drops what she is carrying. Patsy's internal begging for the sweet embrace of death is interrupted by Delia's enthusiastic "yes."

 _Well._ Trixie would be proud.

 

Delia (who apparently wasn't kidding with her 'patience' joke) suggests the day after tomorrow – her next day off – as a good day for their date. Patsy decides that the Natural History Museum is the sort of place whimsical enough to take someone you asked out in a coffee shop, and they agree to meet outside at 10.

Patsy spends the rest of the day in a bit of a daze.

* * *

"Hey!" Delia waves, strolling over at 10 on the dot. Patsy, true to neurotic form, arrived half an hour early and spent the time furiously skipping through the music on her phone to distract from her nervousness. Delia catches her staring.

"What's the matter?"

"It's just – I haven't seen you with your hair down before. It looks nice."

"Thank you," Delia says with a pink-tinged smile, and Patsy realises it's probably the closest Delia comes to embarrassment and wishes she could accept compliments anywhere near as gracefully.

They end up spending _part_ of their date at the Natural History Museum's cafe, but only after a good two hours wandering around the actual museum. Delia loves the dinosaurs, as Patsy suspected she might ("this one was found in Wales, Patsy! And this one!"), and doesn't write off Patsy's favourite, the mineralogy collection, as boring. In fact, she is in awe of the ores (and makes a joke to that effect - twice, because the first time made Patsy laugh so much), and loves the meteorites almost as much as Dippy the diplodocus. But the slow meandering around the huge building is tiring, and since Patsy was the one to invite Delia, she treats them both to hot chocolate.

"I definitely should come here more often," Delia says, "I just get stuck in my little corner of London, you know?"

"Where do you live, anyway?"

"Actually, just above the cafe. Phyllis owns the whole building and lets rooms to me and Babs. I couldn't live in London on a barista's salary otherwise."

"What made you come to London?"

"Oh, you know, classic Dick Whittington – wide-eyed country gal seeks better life in the big city." Patsy blinks in confusion and she laughs, "I came for university. Got a first in Health and Social Care. Started working at the cafe part-time during my studies and can't bring myself to leave."

"Social care?" Patsy asks.

"Yeah. Phyllis keeps threatening to sack me to force me to do get a job that uses my degree. I will eventually, I just... like it there." She sighs. "What do you do?"

"Nursing. I'm a midwife."

"A midwife; that's amazing!" Delia's eyes light up and Patsy can see, clear as day, the respect for her profession that she's yet to receive from her father. "That's such important work."

"I don't feel very important at 3am when I'm covered in amniotic fluid."

"Well I think you're _very_ important." Delia says with finality. Tears prick at Patsy's eyes and she blinks them away because you literally cannot cry on a first date, no matter how lovely the other person is. "And hey – you're talking to someone who wants to do social work, remember? It's hardly glamorous."

"I suppose," says Patsy, "we're quite the pair."

Delia finishes her hot chocolate with a smile. "We are."


End file.
